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It’s freezing. John crams his numb hands deeper into his pockets as he tramps along several paces behind Sherlock, the distance between them growing. He’d like to appreciate the beauty of the forest they’re wandering through. They’d even startled a herd of deer some time back, though Sherlock had hardly noticed. John’s feeling useless and it bruises his mood.
The day had started slow, just the comfort of tea and papers by the fire. And then there had been Lestrade’s text that jolted them from the flat to chase a lead, their adrenaline surging as they raced. The lead had sputtered out, but an unexpected turn had sent them all the way to Richmond Park to track… not the suspect, but the frozen, three-day-old footprints that could crack the murderer’s alibi.
At first, John tried to be helpful and make some sense of it, but frankly the tracks all look alike to him. They’ve been at this for hours and the thrill of the chase has sputtered out. Sherlock is absorbed and hasn’t said a word to him for ages. The sun’s about to set and he seems no closer to cracking the code. What a wasted day. If he’d thought to grab some gloves on his way out the door, maybe John wouldn’t feel so sour. He wishes he hadn’t realized what day it is. Just makes it worse.
It had taken him by surprise. They had been in the cab chasing their lead, John on his mobile looking up train schedules as Sherlock fired questions at the air. As John studied the day’s trains he’d noticed the date. January 29th. Their 8th anniversary. He’d grinned to himself. Here they were all these years later, still caught up in the chase together. He’d reached across the seat and given Sherlock’s thigh a gentle squeeze. Sherlock hadn’t even slowed his soliloquy of speculation, just scooched closer to him the seat, brushing a fast kiss on the corner of his mouth, his eyes sparking. John didn’t bring it up. He didn’t care that they’d forgotten. Sherlock was so beautiful when he was like this, shining, and he’d gazed at him quietly between the google searches.
John’s feet suddenly slide out from under him and he hits the frozen ground hard. Cursing, he picks himself up. It’s the fourth time he’s fallen. This is ridiculous. It’s been snowing and melting and freezing for days, so there’s a hard, slick layer of snow on the path. The chaos of frozen footprints and a thousand hoof-prints are a perfect puzzle that has Sherlock riveted. He’s been following one particular boot tread through the whole trodden mess.
John’s still lagging behind, distracting himself with ironic titles for this case’s blog… Stalking the Deer (Too Bad We Forgot the Deerstalker). The Hunt for the Frozen Feet. How to Track a Baddie and Freeze Your Bullocks Off… when he stumbles into Sherlock. John hadn’t noticed he’d stopped to study a footprint, crouched low with his magnifying lens. They both let out little surprised yells as John trips over him, right at the edge of a slope, and instinctively grabs Sherlock’s coat which only drags him down with him. They both slide down the slope, skidding faster and faster over the glassy surface.
John clings to Sherlock’s coat, trying desperately to slow their slide. There’s a skuffle as they flail, trying to stop, but they’re going too fast. A few trees blur by, but they’re out of reach. John digs his boots into the ice and only succeeds in spinning their slide headfirst. Sherlock crows a protest, but John starts laughing and hooting. It’s actually brilliant. He’s vaulted back in time to childhood and the simple thrill of a reckless slide.
They finally lose momentum. Sherlock struggles to stand on the icy crust, falls, tries again, falls. Cursing, irritated, he crosses his arms where he lays sprawled on his back and snaps at the darkening sky.
“What a waste! It’ll take ages to find that track again.” Sherlock scowls over at John who is laughing hysterically, uncontrollably, cheeks pinked with cold. With a careful effort, Sherlock rights himself and skids cautiously over to John, offering his hand.
Still giggling, John rolls, tries to pull himself up with Sherlock’s help, only to drag him down onto him in a warm, ungainly pile. John wheezes with breathless hysterics and Sherlock’s mood finally begins to thaw, his smile twitching mischievously as he looks down at John, faces pressed close, breath puffing in the cold air. He grips either side of John’s face, pushes their noses together.
“John. John? We are hunting a murderer. Do try to pull yourself together.”
“Sorry,” John finally gasps through his laughter, “I’m so, so sorry–” but he’s stuck in uncontrollable giggle-wheezing. Sherlock watches his hysterics with fond amusement, shakes his head and kisses his temple.
“Shhhh, shh. Get your breath back before I have to resuscitate you,”
John sucks in ragged breaths, hiccuping small giggles, and harrumphs himself calm. He stares up at Sherlock very seriously.
“And what if I wanted to be resuscitated, hm?”
“You only had to ask, you needn’t have knocked me off a cliff to get my attention,” and bites John’s lower lip very softly. A bubble of laughter spills from John and he’s lost it again, Sherlock grinning and kissing him right through his laughter. “How insensitive of me,” he says between kisses and John’s giggles, “neglecting my beautiful boswell.”
Grinning, Sherlock slides his hands under John’s coat, under his cardigan, under his plaid, and John groans happily to feel the warmth on his skin, but Sherlock hisses. His brow knits, voice low and concerned. “John you’re frozen.” His caresses turn more clinical as he tries to rub warmth into John’s cold skin. “Come on, let’s get you off the ice. We’ve got to get you home and warm immediately.”
John can’t tell if it’s the afterglow of his giggle-fit, the burst of sudden affection, or the relief of getting out of this frozen wasteland, but he feels buoyant as they begin to crawl their way back up the slope. Sherlock kicks through the ice with the toes of his shoes to make footholds for John, keeps looking back to check on his progress. The suddenly turn to gallantry is adorable. John muses that the only thing that can ever pull Sherlock from a puzzle is his concern for him. Even the thought is warming. Should’ve knocked him over hours ago, he muses.
John lets Sherlock fuss over him in the cab, pulling him against his chest, folding his arms around him, cupping his cold fingers in his large warm hands and breathing over them.
“Mm, almost forgot,” John hums, eyes closed. “Happy anniversary, love.” He feels Sherlock stiffen beneath him. His voice is pained.
“John! I’m so sorry. God, I forgot. It’s just, the case, and–“
John smiles, bringing Sherlock’s fingers to his lips.
“Relax, I forgot, too til I saw the train schedule.”
“Do you, I dunno, want to go to Angelo’s or something?”
“Nah, I’m knackered. Let’s just go home.” Sherlock nuzzles the top of his head quietly.
An hour later, John finds himself stewing in the bath Sherlock’s drawn for him. He’s feeling very content and very sleepy. Sherlock sits on the edge of the tub in his dressing gown explaining his footprint deductions. He looks down at John’s half-lidded eyes and says a little peevishly, “You’re half asleep, you’re not even listening.”
“Am so,” John mumbles, “said you wanted to get in this tub with me.”
“No I didn’t, I–”
John immediately comes to life. He pulls him into the water, dressing gown and all, hot water sluicing over the sides, Sherlock protesting through his shocked laugh as he flops into his lap.
“John! Really! You could have just asked!”
John smiles wolfishly as he pulls off the sodden dressing gown, nibbling the skin he uncovers.
“True. But I discovered today that taking you by surprise is much more fun.”
Sherlock’s low laugh rumbles deep in his chest as he squeezes next to him in the tub, folding his legs under John’s knees and settling his head on John’s chest above the water line with a contented hum.
John, perfectly warm, perfectly home, runs his fingers lightly over Sherlock’s skin, breathes in the steam and thinks, There, that wasn’t such a wasted day after all, now was it.